


We Mighty Few

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Men of the Pits had no use for offerings of wine and fruit. They paid their tributes in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Mighty Few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatcrudeandknavishsprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatcrudeandknavishsprite/gifts).



> What happens when a plotbunny sniffs politely at my ankle, then latches on like the vicious little bastard it is. I hope you, dear recipient, enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it :) Also many thanks to agentpantybunches for the beta job!

They never came individually.

No, much to the consternation of other templegoers, the Men of the Pits always traveled in clusters of six: three in front and two in the center, followed by one behind the rest. Bad enough to have them together, but even more galling to see the priests greet them with genuine fondness and favor, the higher-ranked citizens eschewed in favor of these savages.

The priests claimed all men were equal in the eyes of the Goddess. They lied.

It is one thing to offer tributes of wine and fruit in an attempt to barter safety from Her wrath. It is quite another to offer blood itself. The Men of the Pits did not pray for Her to pass overhead. They prayed for Her to join them.

*

Their leader was known as the Bear in public and called far worse things in private. His true name was long lost across vast seas and days beyond counting; if he himself remembered it he offered no indication. Tall and sturdy, with burning eyes and a beard that paid no heed to a shaving razor, he fought as if every bout was his last. Were it not for his strength and seemingly endless well of tenacity, every bout might well have sent him to the Underworld.

The Bear always greeted these suggestions with a barking laugh, his teeth glinting too sharply in the sunlight as mirth gave way to ferocious pride.

"The Fates have their orders. The Lord of the Dead has no wish to look upon me yet."

*

The Bear never came alone. Always, in worship as in their march into the Pits, the Beauty walked at his side. Hailing, it was said, from the Helvetic tribes in Gaul, he was stunning to behold.

Rumor held that the Beauty, with his eyes glinting the color of fresh green leaves and his mouth ripe as a cherry, had captivated the Bear as well as the crowds. None dared ask, of course, and those who knew were not inclined to tell. The Beauty was ever at the Bear's side; they moved in unison without saying a word, forming one of the most feared tandems in the known world.

The citizenry often whispered speculations about what exactly such an attractive man had done to be in such a place. What grievous sins did he need to atone for? Surely the Beauty could acquire a patron with the flick of a wrist or the batting of an eyelash, but none materialized and he went into the Pits with the Bear again and again, only growing lovelier with each vanquished enemy.

*

They moved equally well under cover of the night, after She laid a cloak of stars and put the sun to rest. The Bear’s hands mapped the Beauty, explorers on well-loved territory. He tasted each day’s salt and sweat, drinking his kisses like the finest Iberian wines. The Beauty traced the Bear’s features until every imperfection became a treasure under his touch.

They made no promises. They had no need for words in a life such as theirs, where spilled blood spoke loudest of all.

*

At first glance The Prince, the Ironhook, and the Sloth appeared like broken pieces of pottery re-assembled into a whole that no longer maintained its original shape. Often, there was no second glance, for their killing blows came swiftly and without warning.

The Prince, of no royal blood to speak of, wore his wounds like badges of honor; scar tissue sashes and cauterized decorations spoke of wars fought and won, a body sacrificed willingly. The Ironhook spoke little and took his name from his weapon, preferring to let it speak for him, while the Sloth, for all of his laziness, never seemed to stop talking. Those who frequented his bouts liked to comment that She had gifted him with the ability to talk his opponents to death.

In another time and another place, if not for the battle marks on his skin and the smell of death that never quite washed out of his robes, they may have been correct. In truth the Sloth fought with venom and ruthless efficiency, his chatter the last salt in fatal wounds.

*

The one they called Lion had hair the color of wheat and milky-pale skin, pale when it was not smeared with the blood of his opponents. He alone always brought up the rear of their sextuplet, the tallest of them all.

He was birthed in the distant reaches of the far north, near the top of the world where, he claimed, the sun climbed high in the summers and retreated all winter long. He spoke of strange lights in the frigid skies, colors that illuminated the snow-covered wastes when the gods of the North wished it so.

He did not so much forsake the gods of his homeland as honor their desire to be left in peace, he said. Why trouble them with his petty concerns when they did not wish to listen?

*

Often they came straight to the temple after the day’s bouts concluded, eager to slake a different kind of thirst.

The Priest assigned to aid the Men of the Pits shared their devotion with a fervency unmatched by any other. He offered his body as their altar and invited them to worship with sweat and seed after spilling their blood in the sands. He felt their devotion hours and days later, the soreness in his muscles and the slickness trickling down his thighs a vivid reminder of their shared faith.

As a holy man he wasn't supposed to show preference. However, his favor for the Lion was well-known, as was the Lion's reciprocation. The other Men would make their offerings and leave as swiftly as they came, but the Lion always stayed until darkness gave way to the reaches of new dawn, whispering to him in the strange lilting tones of the North.

*

“You are not afraid?” the Lion asked, that first night. In the moonlight his scarred hip shone ghostly white. “Most people refuse to even look us in the eye.”

The Priest licked his lips and tasted blood. Whose blood, he didn’t know. “I don’t fear anyone who shares my faith. You and your comrades know better than anyone that the Goddess is capable of far more than any army when she is angered.”

The Lion hummed and stretched, as feline as his namesake. “This is true.”

“If you were going to kill me, we would not be having this conversation. I’ve seen see you fight. You’re not one to toy with your prey.”

“You’ve watched?” asked the Lion. He sat up, eyes keen on the Priest’s face. “Tell me...what did you see?”

“Chaos. Mad men with nightmare smiles, dancing gleefully on the line between holiness and horror. Your silhouette shimmered in the dust and your shadow grew larger, from man to beast.”

He looked at the Lion, searching for any sign of offense. The Priest found none and continued,

“This temple is not your only place of worship. Every thrust of your sword is a prayer, isn’t it? Except you don’t pray to be spared. You pray for a death worthy of Her.”

The Lion smiled. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

He made to retrieve his tunic and get up, but a hand gripped on his arm hard enough to leave faint red indentations when the Priest relinquished the hold.

“Stay.”

“Why?”

“Because I wish it of you,” answered the Priest. “I have seen you in pain and in pleasure. Now I would see you rest with me.”

The Lion considered him for a moment, then pulled the Priest to his chest with a soft rumbling sound. Even the most feared predator made time for love.

  



End file.
